Being kidnapped by a deadly—and dead sexy—brothel slave wasn’t exactly what Kiehle Xochis signed up for. His instructions had been simple: Watch over the human female until his brother and his mate arrived to rescue her. Instead, the slave has decided to liberate herself. She’s proving to be more than Kiehle can handle—and he kind of likes it.

Allysan Miller has gone through hell since being taken from Earth during an invasion. She’s finally found a way to escape the latest, and worst, of the brothels she’s been sold to. Now if Ally plays her cards right, she could gain both freedom and love…if she can learn to trust the dangerous male she’s chosen as her hostage.

Inside Scoop: Ally suffers her share of abuse at the hands of a brothel owner’s guards. But don’t worry. The feisty female warrior gives as good as she gets.

A Romantica® SciFi erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

Excerpt

By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, please exit this site.

Allysan Miller stood in the holding tank with the other women in the belly of the Loconuist vessel. On high alert—she was always on high alert—she scanned her surroundings.

This isn’t good.

It never was when the Loconuist corralled them in here. It meant that soon the double doors would open and some other alien species would come through and pick out which humans they wanted, and take them away.

Everyone thought the Loconuist were ugly, but some of the things that passed through the doors were horrific in comparison. But regardless of looks, no one ever wanted to leave with the aliens who passed through because of the unknown factor. Living on the Loconuist vessel was bad, but at least there was food and water, and the Loconuist themselves rarely bothered with them.

Ally looked through the crowd of frightened and confused women. Their numbers were steadily dropping.

How many of us are left? Seven hundred—maybe?

They meandered about, everyone on edge. Loved ones and friends stuck together, clutching each other. If there was going to be a “taking”, as everyone had begun to call it, by other aliens, it was best to try to go together.

It had been roughly three years since the invasion on Earth, since Ally had been trapped on the Loconuist vessel.

Three.

Long.

Years.

It was only natural that many of the prisoners had developed close bonds with each other, after all they’d been through. Seen. Done. They’d bonded under the worst possible circumstances. Some bonds had been forged here, others prior to the invasion on Earth.

The thought of Earth seemed like a distant memory. Almost as if the time before now never existed.

A dream.

Ally shook the invading thought from her head. Bringing up old memories would only serve to make her sad. There was no time for sadness right now. She kept her eyes focused on her surroundings, alert for anything out of place. Not all aliens stomped through the holding bay during a taking. No, some were sneakier than that. Some would mimic humans, observing before making their selections.

Everyone had a look of panic on their faces. No one seemed suspicious. They all anxiously waited to learn their fate.

What’s taking them so long to come?

Usually when the women were corralled, the taking took place soon after. But now, the minutes ticked by slowly. As time went on, the noise from the women became louder, more unbearable. There was crying, praying, shouting, talking and whispering all around.

There was no point in trying to block out the sounds. The walls echoed and voices projected.

“I wish they’d get it over with already,” Ally said.

“Me too.” Eva, her best friend, was by her side. She was a petite woman, but a force to be reckoned with. She stood about five-foot-four and weighed no more than a hundred pounds. When they first met, Eva’s black hair had been cropped short, but over the years it had grown and now fell to the middle of her back. On first glance, she could easily be mistaken for a teenager, and not her thirty-plus years.

Ally was as different from Eva as night was to day. Because of the lack of sunlight, both had pale skin, but Eva’s was still a lot darker than hers. Eva had been given up when she was young and didn’t know her heritage. She thought maybe she was mixed, African-American and Caucasian, or perhaps American Indian.

Ally was taller, standing five-foot-seven. Her blonde hair had always been full, long and wavy, but now appeared thin because of a lack of proper nutrition. And while Eva had crisp blue eyes, the kind you could never forget, Ally’s were a dull light blue—not memorable at all.

They came from two different worlds. Eva had worked hard for everything she had, while once upon a time, Ally had doting parents and a husband who’d made sure all her needs were met. She hadn’t been spoiled or anything. She had gotten good grades in high school, had gone to a decent college and gotten her dream job as a computer programmer at a Fortune 500 company. She’d never wanted for anything—not like Eva had when she was growing up.

No matter their differences, they were best friends and they stuck by each other, especially during times like these—they didn’t want to be separated during a taking. They’d seen families ripped apart. That wouldn’t happen with them. Eva was a kick-ass martial artist and Ally had spent the last few years training under her direction. She had lost her plump frame a long time ago. The hours she used to spend sitting in front of a computer developing programs were now spent sparring with Eva. Ally knew she couldn’t fight as well as her friend, but she also knew enough to leave her mark on anyone—anything that tried to take her.

“So what do you think will happen when there are no more buyers? Do you think the Loconuist will keep us?”

“I’m not going to be anyone’s pet willingly,” Ally growled. The sound vibrated in her chest.

Eva sighed, probably feeling just as frustrated as Ally. They’d been trapped on the vessel for three years. The first taking had been a chaotic, emotional mess. The Loconuist had rounded up everyone, ushering them from the common living areas to multiple rooms much like the one they stood in now. Not only had there still been men onboard at that time, but children as well.

Jim, her husband, had died just before that first taking. It hadn’t been the result of anything the Loconuist had done—or hadn’t done. But she hated them just the same. He’d died in his sleep. He’d been very sick since before the invasion, so she’d been expecting it, but it hadn’t made losing the love of her life any less painful.

“What’s the plan with this round? Are we going to try to get picked or try to stay here?” Ally asked.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave the ship yet. I vote that if they try to take us, we fight and stick together. Same as always.”

“Right. And if we get separated?”

“We won’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

We can’t.

Just as Ally finished that thought, the sirens sounded to alert them that the doors were opening. The voices in the room quieted to small whimpers. Ally stiffened and Eva became instantly alert. They both had their eyes trained on the doors, waiting to see what would come through.

Author Bio

M. Griffin is a wife who rarely cooks, mother of three, dog owner (and sometimes dog owned), a daughter, sister, aunt and friend. She’s a hard worker whose two favorite outlets are reading and writing. She enjoys reading everything from mystery novels to historical romances and of course fantasy romance. She is a believer in the unbelievable, open to all possibilities from mermaids in our oceans and seas, angels in the skies and intelligent life forms in distant galaxies.

Jace Sloan has it all. He’s smoking hot, a college football star with a storybook family, and he’s never met a woman he couldn’t charm. He’s also never met one who makes him want to be a better man…until he meets Maggie. Now, this self-proclaimed geek with wild red hair and the greenest eyes he’s ever seen has him thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts. Like settling down and being a one-woman man.

Maggie Fielding is anything but Jace’s type. For starters, her IQ is bigger than her chest size. But Jace is panty melting hot, and she’s having a hard time remembering that he’s bad news. If only she could stop telling him her secrets, because her answers to his questions just might have both of them falling in love for the first time.

Excerpt

“Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Go from girl to girl. My mother was promiscuous because she tried to make up for everything wrong in her life—no relationship with her family, a kid she didn’t want. But you have the most wonderful family in the world. And you have friends—and talent. I don’t understand what you’re trying to compensate for.”

He didn’t say anything, so she said, “You don’t have to answer. I shouldn’t have asked. I just finished telling you to stay out of my business and now I’m butting into yours.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to answer. It’s—I don’t know the answer. Maybe it’s evolutionary psychology. You know, spill your seeds and all that crap.”

“You’re kidding, right? That theory has to do with finding the best candidate for breeding to produce the best offspring. It isn’t an excuse to screw every female in Texas. Unless you’re saying you want to impregnate women to create a bunch of little football All-American’s?”

“Hell, no. My policy is no glove, no love. I’m saying, could be, men aren’t supposed to be monogamous.”

“You’re speaking for your entire gender?”

“Yeah.”

“So—your dad could have women on the side and that would be okay.”

“No! All right, you’ve made your point. Some men can be happy with one woman.”

“But not you.”

He rolled up on his elbow and rested his face in his hand. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a complete jerk. I guess I do it because I can. From the time I was in junior high, girls have thrown themselves at me and all I’ve done is take advantage of it. I’ve never lied to get a girl to sleep with me. I’ve never told one I loved her or promised forever. I don’t even spend the night. They know what to expect from me.” He flopped back down. “Maybe I’ve slept with more than my share, but I don’t consider myself a bad guy. Do you?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then, I think you’re just as emotionally unavailable as I am. I avoid men because I’m afraid I’ll lose my heart, and you go from girl to girl to keep from giving yours away.”

About the Author

Ann Everett embraces her small town upbringing and thinks Texans are some of the funniest people on earth. When speaking to writing groups, businesses, book clubs, and non-profit organizations, she incorporates her special brand of wit, making her programs on marketing, self-publishing, and the benefits of laughter, informative and fun.

An award winning author, she’s also a member of Northeast Texas Writers’ Organization and a top ten reviewer on thenextbigwriter.com

When Ann’s not writing, she spends her days listening in on people’s conversations at the local Wal-Mart, beauty shop, Goodwill, and numerous other gathering spots. She draws from that research to pen her romantic suspense novels full of southern sass and Texas twang. For her new adult romance stories, she blends her dramatic writing style with a kick of humor.

Years ago, the McClouds and their friends rescued little Sveti Ardova from ruthless organ traffickers. Now she’s all grown up, and getting into some scorching trouble of her own . . .

NO SURRENDER

The risks ex-cop Sam Petrie has taken have turned his life into a train wreck. So he has nothing to lose by doubling down as the elusive Svetlana Ardova’s unwanted bodyguard on her ill-advised trip to Italy. Her crusade against modern slavery has blazoned a bullseye on her chest, but when one of the death threats against her almost hits the mark, Sam’s protective instincts go into overdrive. Every lethal obstacle and trap they encounter ups the stakes—and the undeniable heat between them.

Now they’re spiraling in on a deadly and explosive secret—one that could either redeem them or destroy them … and the closer they get, the shorter the fuse …

Praise for Shannon McKenna

“The McCloud series is an auto buy for me.” –Maya Banks

“McKenna writes intense, sensual stories.” –The B&N Review

“Shannon McKenna makes the pulse pound.” –BookPage

EXCERPT

All yours. Sam’s fantasy head rush was swiftly quenched when Sveti lunged for the door. He blocked her way. “No way.”

“You heard Tam,” Sam replied. “You leave this room, and she comes after my balls with the bolt-cutters.”

Sveti’s chest heaved, which highlighted her excellent nipple hard-on. “What Tam might do to you is nothing compared to what I will do to you if you try to stop me from walking out that door.”

Sam reached, and flicked the knob lock. “I’ll take my chances.”

She crossed her arms over the nipple jut. “Wrong answer.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do to me? You got a pair of bolt-cutters under your skirt, too?”

She snorted. “Most guys seem to think so.”

He admired the hot flush staining her cheekbones. “I don’t.”

“Good for you. Congratulations. You’re very brave. Now get out of my way. I can’t stand being confined. Not after what happened to me.”

He waved that away. “Don’t play the captive-waif-in-the-dungeon pity card with me. It’s old and tired. Move on.”

Her jaw sagged, in utter shock. “You asshole!”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed. “I have nothing to lose. You already think I’m a dickhead. Why not say whatever I damn well please?”

Curling wisps of hair swayed around her chin as she shook her head. “I have bigger problems than your unrequited crush, Petrie!”

“Burrrrrnnn,” he murmured. “Tell me about those big problems, since we’re shut in here together. You can start with the death threats.”

Her eyes slid away. “I do not want to discuss that.”

“Too bad. I say we do.”

A tense silence followed that statement. She flicked him a wary glance from under those long lashes. “You can’t bully me,” she said.

“You think not?” he said. “Let’s see about that. Spit it out. Who, what, where and when. Was it that sweatshop bust, six months ago? Those piece of shit snakeheads Helen Wong and Him Goh?”

Her eyes went wide and startled. “How do you know about them?”

“I watch the news, Sveti,” he said patiently. “I’m a cop. I have friends. I hear things. Plus, you live-streamed, blogged and tweeted the whole thing to a hundred and twenty thousand followers.”

“And you are one of them, now? Spying on me?”

He plowed right on past that one, there being no point. “Sneaking into that place with a live video camera on you was suicidal. You should have just passed the tip onto the police, and let them deal with it.”

Her chin tilted up. “There were thirty-four trafficked Chinese nationals locked in there, slaving eighteen hours a day! I saw my chance, and took it! People have to see for themselves. It’s the only thing that makes it real for them! That’s what pulls in the donations!”

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead,” he pointed out. “But never mind that now. Just tell me about the death threats.”

“It was just a letter,” she said, defensive. “Hand delivered. It said they were going to kill me. That’s all. Nothing came of it.”

“When?”

She shook it off. “Months ago, now.”

“So why aren’t you guarded twenty-four seven?” he snarled.

“I was! For months! Finally I put my foot down, because it was absurd, Sam. I can’t live my life like that. Don’t worry! It’s covered!”

Covered, his ass. But he knew a dead-end conversation when he heard one. He had lots of practice. Those were a Petrie family hobby.

“Fine,” he said. “On to the next item that’s not my business.”

Her eyes dilated. He wished he had the super-senses they said Miles had now. His heart pounded too hard to hear hers, certainly at that distance. He started to close that distance, and she skittered back a pace. It took all his willpower to stay motionless, leaving none to hold back the incredibly ill-advised question. “If you don’t want to talk about death threats, then tell me about your love life.”

Her mouth tightened. “I would rather not.”

“Tell me about loverboy. How long have you been seeing him?”

“You mean Josh? I’ve known him ever since Nick rescued me from Zhoglo. He’s a good friend.”

“Define ‘friend,” he said. “Does it mean, free to fondle your ass?”

The chin tilted up a notch. “You’re being invasive.”

“Yeah? Would you feel invaded to learn that he’s hitting on two girls on the catering staff, in between groping slow-dances with you?”

Her gaze dropped, but she did not look as startled or upset about that revelation as she ought to. “You have no right to judge.”

“Wrong,” he informed her. “That ten minutes in Ranieri’s home office two years ago. No matter how long ago, no matter how you’ve ignored me since then, that ten minutes gives me the right to give a shit. Tell me about Cattrell. Are you fucking him?”

“No!” The denial popped out, vehement and breathless.

“Planning to?” he persisted. If this was going to be the definitive crotch-kick of reality, then bring it on.

Sveti’s gaze dropped. He waited.

“You’re not involved with him at all,” he said.

“I told you,” she said. “We’re good friends.”

“And it doesn’t bug you that he was fondling the wait staff.”

“No, not anymore,” she said softly. “I’ve known for a long time that he doesn’t have feelings for me that I’d, um. Hoped.”

Hoped? Sveti had hoped, and the guy hadn’t delivered the goods? God. Cattrall must be brain damaged, not to hit on that.

“He was touching you as if you were lovers,” he said. “But you’re not a ass-grab kind of girl. You asked him to do that for my benefit. He was a safe date, in case I came to smoke you out. Your human shield.”

Her color rose. “Wow, Petrie. You may be surprised to learn this, but you are not, in fact, the center of all my thoughts.”

“Tell me if I’m right,” he persisted, though he was already sure.

“Get out of my way!” She tried to push past him, toward the door.

He grabbed her. He knew he shouldn’t, but the part of him that knew had no say. The rest of him clamped onto her, nerves janging at the sweet shock of contact. Her heat and scent overwhelmed his senses, laced up into that tight cage of crimson satin. Straining away from him. Provoking a dangerous, animal urge to drag her close. Pin her down.

“Let me go, Petrie,” she said. “Or I start to scream.”

“You treat me like I’m a criminal lowlife, out to rape and pillage,” he said. “I’m one of the good guys, Sveti.”

“Hah,” she muttered. “There are no good guys.”

“We’re all bad, then? You lump me in with Arbatov? Zhoglo?”

The mention of the two mafiya Vors energized her struggle. He clamped her tighter against his body. Her heartbeat was so frantic and birdlike. She felt so fragile. But she wasn’t.

“I can’t believe we’re talking about my love life, when that monster is in the ballroom with my friends and their kids eating tempura dipped zucchini flowers! He’s committed horrible crimes against innocents!”

“You’re not the only one who tries to protect the innocent.”

She sniffed. “Yes, of course. The police are so very noble.”

He waited for a moment. “Not fair,” he said quietly. “We try.”

She looked down, abashed. “That is true, and I apologize,” she said. “This is silly, Sam. I promise, I won’t be rude to the criminals. I won’t get myself or anyone else killed. Let go. Please. I’ll be good.”

Now she was trying sweet reason. Who cared. She may have gotten a handle on her self control, but he most definitely had not.

His grip did not slacken as he put words to the thought forming in his head. “You know what your problem is, Sveti?”

She tilted a winged dark brow. “I imagine you’re going to tell me?”

“Your love life, the thing with Josh. Me. It’s the same issue. You think sex is frivolous. The real deal is the big bad story of your life. Ogres trying to cut your heart out and sell it. The last minute rescue from a grisly death. The hell you went through gives your life purpose. It defines you. The rest is fluff. It doesn’t deserve your full attention.”

“And you think you deserve my full attention, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he said baldly. “My full, undivided attention, all over every inch of your body, for a prolonged period of uninterrupted time.”

She shrank away. “I don’t have time for games.”

“Yeah. Getting buried in a concrete bridge piling, that’s Svetlana Ardova’s idea of a good time. You must be lot of fun at parties, babe.”

“Fuck you, Petrie!”

Ooh, hostile. “You have to let the past go,” he told her.

“Do I?” She shook with a bitter jolt of laughter. “Really! Wow, Sam, thanks for the insight! Like it’s that easy! You have no idea.”

“Of course nobody can say that to you. That’s why your love life is so hot and happening. All those unsayable things start to choke a guy after about ten minutes.”

“Let go of me, goddamnit!” She flailed furiously.

“But I can say the unsayable. You already think I’m scum. I don’t have to pretend to be anything but a dickhead. Ahhh. Freedom.”

“I never said you were a dickhead,” she whispered.

Happy news, but he wasn’t getting cocky about it just yet.

“Where do you get courage to say unsayable things?” she asked. “All the men I meet are afraid of me. So what makes you so brave?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just dumb that way, I guess.”

There was a floor length mirror. He tugged her across the floor until they were reflected in it, right down to the pointy toes peeping out of the hem of her skirt. She made a distressed sound, and fought her arm free to fumble for a tissue, with which she tried to wipe mascara.

“I scare you to death,” he said.

She somehow managed to look haughty while mopping up her nose with a tissue. “No, you do not. But you are very intense.”

“Call me Sam.” He bent to smell her hair, and she arched away, a tremor rippling through her body. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Laughter vibrated through her. She mouthed the word. Bullshit.

His hand slid, over her warm curves, shadowy dips and hollows. He wanted to eat up her delicate scent. Devour it in one breath. Miles could break down those pheremones into their chemical components and list their molecular formulas. But for Sam, it wasn’t chemistry.

It was magic. Crazy, balls-deep enthrallment.

“You just won’t give me a break,” he murmured, against her throat. “And I know why. You want to know my theory about you?”

She flinched away as he cupped her jaw, letting her delicate wispy ringlets tickle his wrist. Insubstantial as a puff of breath.

“No, Petrie,” she said. “To be honest, not really.”

“I’m telling you anyway.” He nuzzled the whorl of hair below her ear and dragged his lips over the edge of that crimson birthmark. “That day in Bruno’s studio. It was too good for you.”

A burst of laughter shook her. “Really?”

“It made you forget,” he insisted. “For a little while, it was just you and me in the room. No evil Vor, no organ pirates. No past. No future.”

“Marco was there. In his crib,” she corrected, primly.

“Whatever. You’re so wound up in this scary story of almost getting your heart ripped out. It defines you. It freaks you out, to be cut loose from that. It makes you feel lost. Scared.”

“Petrie, do everyone a favor, and don’t take up psychology.”

“You lost yourself,” he persisted. “I could help you find it again.”

The frown line between her brows deepened. “You’re so arrogant.”

“That day when I touched you. You came so hard. I dream about it at night. Wake up shaking. Drenched in sweat. So fucking hard.”

She shook her head. “Please,” she whispered.

He rubbed his cheek against that loose, gleaming topknock. “It scared you, baby. You thought you were going to die. But you won’t. I’ll take care of you. You won’t fall to pieces. Or if you do, it’ll only be for a few seconds, and I’ll hold you all together. I’ll hold you so tight. I’ll keep you so safe.” He tasted her, trailing his lips down to her collarbone.

“Sam,” she breathed out. “Please.”

“I’ll make it so good. I’ll get you off like that, over and over. I won’t be rough. I won’t scare you, and I won’t hurt you. Just . . . trust me.”

She looked up to meet his eyes. He went very still. The raw pain blazing out of them jolted him right out of his seduction schtick.

“I don’t know how to trust like that,” she said. “I just . . . can’t. I’m really not playing hard-to-get. You tempt me, yes. But I hold back because I just don’t have what you want. It’s not there, Sam.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “That mechanism, it doesn’t work, in me. I don’t mean to be a tease, or cruel, or or disdainful. I never wanted to be a frigid bitch. It’s sad and it’s awful, but it’s the truth. It’s my reality, and I’m sorry if I . . . I’m just so sorry.”

He processed that. “So we’ll work on it,” he offered. “I felt a lot of potential, back there in Bruno’s office. We’ll fix it. No biggie.”

“No biggie, he says.” Her voice was strangled. “Don’t try to rescue me from my past. You’ll just hurt yourself. It’s bigger than you are.”

“How would you know how big I am?”

She shot him a glance, and snorted, reddening.

“I didn’t say it,” he crowed, delighted. “It was you.”

“English is not my first language,” she said haughtily. “Don’t try to trap me in word games. I will never get the joke.”

She wasn’t pulling away. He stroked her shoulders, encountered the straps that held up the cups of gathered fabric that her perfect tits were nestled in. He flicked the ribbons down. Her eyes widened as the fabric slid down-catching on her nipple. She jerked her hands up-

Or tried to. He caught them up short, staring into her eyes as the cups slid down to dangle over the shell of the bustier.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “I’ve lain awake nights staring at the ceiling, imagining you exactly like this.”

He felt his way, slowly. Using those secret senses that jolted to life only when she was near. Eyes and ears that opened only for her. He strained for more. He wanted inside her hidden depths, to take possession. He waited, savoring the tension, until he dared to risk sliding his hands up to cup her breasts, with fingers that trembled.

A ripple went through her, then a sighing, barely audible moan. He caressed her, tender spiraling whorls over and around her taut, deep pink nipples, the soft plump under-curve, the tender fullness. So perfect. Springy, luscious. Suckable. But not now, because she’d rested her head on his shoulders, and the slight, warm weight of her head upon him was such a miracle of itself, he didn’t dare mess with it.

He inhaled her scent. Warm and spicy and sweet. Her hair had come unpinned, and the thick horsetail draped over his arm, making him wish his arm were bare. His sleeve blocked out the live heft of that heavy silken rope. His fingers buzzed. She was actually letting him touch her. It put him in a state of trembling, worshipful awe.

She twisted around and looked up. Lips in reach.

That was it, just like the last time. Conscious control vanished.

She melted into him, arms twined around her neck. Oh, God, that sweet, tender inside flavor, the impossible softness of her lips. A swift glance yielded scant possibilities for taking this tryst horizontal. The floor was gleaming oak. Spindly legged chairs, tables with runners, antique breakables. No couches or lounges. So it was the wall again. He could deal with gravity. What was upper body strength for, after all.

He scooped her up. A few steps, and he pinned her to the closest bare spot of wallpaper, fiercely intent upon tasting, touching, knowing more. He leaned to kiss her breasts, and she moaned, ribcage heaving, fingers twining in his hair. He lifted armfuls of skirt, slid his hand up her thigh. Hot, smooth. Stretchy lace, soft skin, filmy silk stretched over tender girl parts, the moisture seeping through. The heat, the wet. He couldn’t wait to taste it. Lick it. Get inside. Deep inside. Oh God, now. The wanting was a huge, feral beast inside him, clawing to get out.

Her thighs trembled. He slid his finger under the elastic, into silky golds that yielded sweetly, pressing deeper into a hot, slick paradise-

Shannon McKenna is the NYT bestselling author of over ten action packed, turbocharged romantic thrillers, among which are the stories of the wildly popular McCloud series. She loves tough and heroic alpha males, heroines with the brains and guts to match them, villains who challenge them to their utmost, adventure, scorching sensuality, and most of all, the redemptive power of true love. Since she was small she has loved abandoning herself to the magic of a good book, and her fond childhood fantasy was that writing would be just like that, but with the added benefit of being able to take credit for the story at the end. Alas, the alchemy of writing turned out to be messier than she’d ever dreamed. But what the hell, she loves it anyway, and hopes that readers enjoy the results of her alchemical experiments. She loves to hear from her readers. Contact her at her website, http://shannonmckenna.com, or join the newsletter by signing up here: http://shannonmckenna.com/connect.php.

Wesley Webb is at the pinnacle of his auto racing career when his main rival is murdered hours after their confrontation. That, along with evidence found at the scene, shades him as prime suspect. Now he’s under intense press scrutiny, particularly from Caitlyn Daniels, an ex-girlfriend who knows all about his secret past.

Caitlyn thought to never see Wesley again. Now, his life could be in her hands. Ten years ago, a tragedy tore apart everything she held dear, including their relationship. When she’s assigned to do an exclusive story with the reluctant race car driver she once loved, she believes this could be her purging. But chemistry tears apart her resolve to stay strong. Can they work out their differences and fall in love again, or will tragedy keep them apart?

Excerpt

She took a deep breath. Usually her interviews became more personal. She wasn’t sure how personal to get with him. She knew a lot about him—at least she used to—but she was scared of asking him the wrong thing. She didn’t want to set him off.

“What’s your favorite color?” Caitlyn held a pen in her hand, poised to write, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. Her focus, though, was Wesley’s deep green eyes. Eyes able to pierce her and reach a part of her no one had ever been able to touch before. Something about the way he looked at her, like he saw only her, deep down, clear to her soul.

A hint of danger lurked in his eyes, a predator-like stance that made her sense he was ready to devour her, sexually and otherwise. A vulnerability that made Caitlyn yearn to take him in her arms, to be as close to him as possible. His gaze held no arrogance, no indifference, and no deceit.

Her throat felt parched. His eyes devoured every morsel of her power and well-being.

She couldn’t think of a decent thing to say. Thank God it was his turn to talk.

“My favorite color,” he said as he leaned across the table, closer to Caitlyn, “is the capricious color of your eyes.”

His lips were only inches from hers so that his breath licked against her skin. His eyes possessed her.

She clutched her pen in midair, frozen in space for a mere second. He touched her hand.

The pen fell.

“Blueberry,” he said as he trailed a light kiss across her knuckle, his eyes still magnetizing hers. Her heart stopped in her throat. “Dark and wounded. Cornflower blue, tantalizing with banter and witticism.” He kissed the tip of her pinkie and went on to taste each finger, slowly taking his time with each one. “Sea blue, bright and sparkling like the waves catching a sunset, when you’re happy.”

Caitlyn, entranced with his words, was amazed he even noticed her eyes and more amazed he practically recited poetry. Where had he come up with this?

“Storm clouds,” he continued as he stroked the inside of her palm. “Brewing with a passion and desire you’re too afraid to feel. Sometimes periwinkle, sometimes almost lavender and sometimes a sultry gray. Right now though, they are definitely–”

She pulled her hand away and scooted back in her chair. Thoroughly aroused, she squeezed her thighs tighter in an attempt to bury the spark.

“You’re full of it,” she said. “My eyes don’t change colors that much and even if they did, you wouldn’t notice.”

“What makes you say that?” He leaned back in his chair, taking the two back legs to its haunches, something they both used to get in trouble for when they were kids.

She shook her head and didn’t answer. The touch of his warm mouth on her fingers still burned in her core.

“I always notice your eyes.”

About the Author

During her senior year in high school, Angela Smith was dubbed most likely to write a novel, and that has been her dream ever since her mother read stories of ‘Brer Rabbit’ to her and her sister so often that they were able to recite it back to each other before they learned to read. She hasn’t stopped reading or writing since. A certified paralegal, work gives her perfect fodder for her romantic suspense stories. When not caring for her small farm or spending time with her husband of two decades, she enjoys 4-wheeling, crafting, reading, and dreaming of the places she’ll visit one day.

Speculative Literary Fiction

Date Published: May 19, 2014

After centuries of religiously motivated war, the world has been split in two. Now the Blessed Lands are ruled by pure faith, while in the Republic, reason is the guiding light-two different realms, kept apart and at peace by a treaty and an ocean.

Children of the Republic, Helena and Jason were inseparable in their youth, until fate sent them down different paths. Grief and duty sidetracked Helena’s plans, and Jason came to detest the hollowness of his ambitions.

These two damaged souls are reunited when a tiny boat from the Blessed Lands crashes onto the rocks near Helena’s home after an impossible journey across the forbidden ocean. On board is a single passenger, a nine-year-old girl named Kailani, who calls herself The Daughter of the Sea and the Sky. A new and perilous purpose binds Jason and Helena together again, as they vow to protect the lost innocent from the wrath of the authorities, no matter the risk to their future and freedom.

But is the mysterious child simply a troubled little girl longing to return home? Or is she a powerful prophet sent to unravel the fabric of a godless Republic, as the outlaw leader of an illegal religious sect would have them believe? Whatever the answer, it will change them all forever… and perhaps their world as well.

EXCERPT

THE GIRL FROM THE BLESSED LANDS

Jason offered his bottle, but the girl shied away. Helena cradled the child’s head and tilted her chin while he trickled a few drops into her mouth.

The girl licked her cracked lips and opened for more. After she’d drunk her fill, she turned to Helena. Her eyes grabbed and held. “The dream,” she said. “It’s true. I can see it in your eyes.”

Helena felt a sudden urge to distract the girl, to disrupt that penetrating gaze. “Who are you?”

The girl ignored the question, instead resting her hand on Jason’s forearm.

His muscles twitched as if he were unsure whether to linger or jerk away.

“Your arm is hot,” she said.

“That’s because I’ve been running.”

The girl’s ocean-blue eyes opened wider. “From what?”

He withdrew his arm and flexed his fingers. “Are you from the Blessed Lands?”

The girl nodded.

“Why would you make such a dangerous voyage alone in such a small boat?”

“I was in no danger,” she said.

He waved a hand at the flotsam, still surging in the tide. “But your boat’s destroyed, and it took us to save you.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She looked back out to sea as if expecting to find her boat still afloat. “Then I thank Lord Kanakunai for sparing me and delivering me to kind people who would help.”

“But who are you?” Helena said more insistently.

The girl motioned for more to drink, this time grasping the bottle with both hands and emptying it. When she finished, she sat up and lifted her chin like royalty. “I am Kailani, the daughter of the sea and the sky.”

BOOK TRAILER

AUTHOR BIO

The urge to write first struck when working on a newsletter at a youth encampment in the woods of northern Maine. It may have been the night when lightning flashed at sunset followed by northern lights rippling after dark. Or maybe it was the newsletter’s editor, a girl with eyes the color of the ocean. But he was inspired to write about the blurry line between reality and the fantastic .
Using two fingers and lots of white-out, he religiously typed five pages a day throughout college and well into his twenties. Then life intervened. He paused to raise two sons and pursue a career, in the process becoming a well-known entrepreneur in the software industry, founding several successful companies. When he found time again to daydream, the urge to write returned.

He’s published three novels so far in this new stage of his life: There Comes a Prophet, Along the Watchtower, and the recently released The Daughter of the Sea and the Sky.
David and his wife split their time between Cape Cod, Florida and anywhere else that catches their fancy. He no longer limits himself to five pages a day and is thankful every keystroke for the invention of the word processor.

When Carringby Industries, a government-contracted arms manufacturer, is raided by what appear to be terrorists, the CEO’s secretary, Belinda Reese, is rescued by Brandon Drake, a dashing young AWOL soldier. Using an experimental test aircraft, he flees with her to his remote, isolated cabin in the mountains of Aspen.

While assisting in the design of military weaponry, Brandon discovered a plot within his own government to attack its own facilities, under the guidance of immoral politician, Senator Garrison Treadwell. Belinda’s body was not found among the dead at Carringby Industries, and Treadwell suspects that Drake was responsible for rescuing her. In an effort to entrap him, Treadwell arranges for an all points bulletin to be placed on Belinda.

Deeply in love, Brandon and Belinda attempt to escape from America, only to endure one harrowing experience after another as they try to evade and expose Treadwell’s corrupt faction.

But on the run, with danger around every corner, Brandon makes a discovery so devastating that it shatters the very foundations of his reality.

[Belinda] dropped to the floor and pushed the door open only to be met with a wall of flame, causing her to instinctively recoil. She gave herself a moment to compose herself before seizing a break in the fire.

Darting to the left, she found herself in the maintenance stairwell. Below her was an inferno. It wasn’t possible for her to go back down.

In a desperate effort to escape the fire, she ran up the steps, but the smoke continued to engulf her.

By the time she’d reached the next flight of stairs, only a few steps from where she’d started, she fell to her knees in a coughing fit. Her eyes stung, watering from the smoke, but she persisted.

Despite her initial determination, she became convinced she wasn’t going to make it. She couldn’t see anything ahead of her, and her consciousness was slipping away . . .

She thought she could see a dark shape coming down the stairwell toward her, through the smoke. As it came closer, she could make out a human decked-out in black.It has to be one ofthem, she thought.

Through her squinted eyes, she could see he wore a shiny black helmet, similar to the type worn on a motorcycle, although far less bulky. It seemed to cover his head with a slender, streamlined fit, and there was a reflective visor covering his face.

In her weakened condition, she resigned herself to the belief that she was going to die. The fight was leaving her, and smoke inhalation stole her consciousness. She couldn’t be certain whether or not she was dreaming the man in the black helmet.

And then, she felt strong, gentle hands cradling her face for just a moment. “P-please don’t kill me,” she mumbled.

“I’m not going to kill—”

Belinda passed out.

She woke without a sense for how long she’d been out. Had she been unconscious for seconds? Or days? Why was everything upside down?

She felt a tight grip on her legs below the knees, and she was moving quickly with a jerking motion. The smoke seemed to clearing, and the blood rushed into her head, bringing her back to consciousness. She saw the white surface of the steps from her inverted position, and she suddenly understood. He was running up the stairwell while carrying her over his shoulder.

Moments later, the ground turned black and she sensed herself being turned upright in the freezing cold. In her dazed state, it took her a few moments to realize that she was outside.

The stranger knelt down beside her and she shivered. “W-who . . . are you?” she asked.

“Your only way out of here.”

“Where . . . where are we?”

“We’re on the roof. We can’t go back down. The place is a torch.”

Belinda couldn’t place his tone, but there was a masculine depth to it that was genuine and sincere.

“Please, trust me,” he implored her. “Can you stand up?”

“Y-yes, I think so,” she said, but her coughing resumed.

He waited for the attack to abate before speaking again. “I’m going to get you out of here. There’s only one way.”

As he helped her to her feet, she realized how high up they were with the skyscrapers all around them.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“B-Belinda. Belinda Reese,” she answered quivering, and hugged herself tightly against the chilling effects of shock and the brutal February wind.

“All right Belinda, I need you to come over here with me.” He motioned toward the edge of the roof. “There’s nothing to worry about, trust me.”

As a show of good faith, he walked toward the edge before her. Once he was standing on the ledge, he reached out and beckoned her to join him.

Trembling, she placed one foot in front of the other, but she froze when she saw him taking a gun-like device from his tool-belt.

“It’s OK,” he said in a reassuring tone. “This isn’t what you think it is. I swear to you on my own life, I’m not going to hurt you.”

With great trepidation, she resumed her steps toward him.

“That’s it,” he encouraged her. “Just a little closer.”

As Belinda stopped inches away from him at the ledge, he aimed the device toward a skyscraper opposite and brought a small targeting sight to eye-level. Although it bore a resemblance to a gun, it didn’t have a barrel, but rather a tennis ball-sized bulb held fast by his palm.

He depressed a button on the top of the metallic casing and a thin, high-tensile steel cable jettisoned from the nozzle toward the building opposite. The cable reached the other side and a small steel claw at the end of line clasped a maintenance rail in the center of the roof. He pulled on the cable to ensure that it was secured, and stepped away from the edge.

He hurried across to a maintenance stairwell next to the entrance and climbed three steps. Once he was in position, he wrapped the wire around an iron step above him repeatedly. From the height of the roof’s ledge, the step would be approximately twelve inches above his own height. Reaching height.

With a flick of a switch on top of the bulb, the cable was locked inside the casing.

Belinda watched him, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

Intensely focused upon his task, he didn’t reply.

He returned to her and took another device from his belt–a black metal tube, approximately fourteen inches in length, from which he pulled out two hand-grips from either side.

Belinda noticed a small pulley wheel on the underside of the tube, which he clipped onto the wire. He created a zip-line between the two buildings.

Upon that realization, she panicked, believing that he intended for her to hang from the hand grips and glide across to the adjacent building. “I can’t do this. Please, I’m begging you. I can’t do it.”

He stepped back up onto the ledge. “You don’t have to. I do. Now, take it steady and join me here.”

She raised her right leg so slowly that she thought she would never put it down, but eventually, the tip of her shoe settled onto the ledge.

He gently placed his hand upon her shoulder. “All right, now grab hold of me.”

She permitted him to grasp her under her armpits and lift her onto the ledge. She trembled with vulnerability and vertigo. “Oh, God, please don’t let me fall.”

“You’re not going to fall.”

He carefully placed her arms around his chest. She immediately detected the solid base underneath his black, bullet-resistant attire. It was clear that, beyond the Kevlar; he was muscular, heightening her sense of safety with him. With shaking hands, she held onto him for dear life.

He gripped the pulley with his left hand and lifted the visor with his right. Belinda looked into his deep green eyes. He looked exactly the same to her as his voice sounded: strong, but kind.

The moment ended and he pulled the visor back down into place.

Holding the right hand grip, he looked at her again and gave her the most unnecessary piece of advice she had ever heard: “Hold on!”

Peter Darley (P.D. to his friends) is a British novelist, whose professional history is in showbusiness. He is a graduate of the Birmingham School of Speech and Dramatic Art, and he studied television drama at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA.) His television credits include guest-starring roles is UK productions such as BBC’s Crime Ltd, Stanley’s Dragon for ITV, The Bill, and Sky One’s Dream Team, and numerous TV commercials. He has also worked as a model, presenter, and voice-over artiste for ten years, and has acted as an agent for several variety acts. His lifelong admiration of heroes, and love of roller-coaster-style thrills have been a huge influence on his writings. He is a keen athlete and body builder, and lives with his partner in rural England.

A long way from anywhere, on a road going nowhere, lays a small, unremarkable town. It seems a peaceable, prosperous little place, on the surface at least.

Away from prying eyes however, in the shadows and the forgotten corners, there is a web being weaved through the lives of its inhabitants by the town’s urbane and mysterious Mayor. A man prepared to make a deal for your heart’s desire and, maybe, for your very soul…

Welcome to Hawker’s Drift, a town where nothing is quite as it seems…

Excerpt

Only three people trudged behind the coffin-laden wagon.

He assumed the woman in the black dress was the widow. Her face was veiled, but her back was straight and she moved as freely as the cloying mud allowed; a young widow. A small bookish man peering through rain-smeared spectacles laboured next to her, struggling to hold an umbrella over them both in the wind. Behind came a cadaverous looking old bird clutching a dog-eared bible to his chest. A preacher.

Amos pulled his horse to the side of the road; if that wasn’t too generous a description for two mud-choked ruts. It meandered towards a town that occupied a low slung hill; the only feature on the vast tableland of grass. He took off his hat and let the rain sting his face as the little procession passed. The widow glanced up at him hesitantly, before nodding an acknowledgement. From behind the shadows of her veil he got the impression of an attractive woman with no intention of crying. There was sadness, not unexpectedly, coming off of her, but interspersed with those dull grey waves came prickly spikes of fear too.

The preacher flicked a glance in his direction as well, but he quickly dropped his eyes and scurried along, his body bent forward against the driving rain. He looked terribly unhappy with his lot. The preacher was suffering, a physical pain beneath a terrible craving.

The third man, his jacket flapping in the breeze, ignored him, and Amos tried to do the same to the hot, fetid desire that was rolling off of him like a burning fever.

Whoever was being buried had not warranted much in the way of gestures from the rest of the town. What did you have to do to end up with only two mourners and a sour-faced preacher at your funeral?

As the wagon bearing the coffin rattled on towards the cemetery, signified by a small forest of crosses poking above the surrounding long grass, he let the rain wash the scent of their souls from the air before he replaced his hat and pushed his weary horse on towards the town.

Out here, where seas of grass washed towards too far away horizons and the earth squatted beneath colossal skies, it amounted to civilization.

He slipped his coat back and made sure his gun was free to draw.

Civilization, he had found, tended to suck.

Author Bio & Links

Andy Monk lives in London with his partner and their goldfish.

After a high-flying academic career and glittering success in professional sport, followed by a jet-set lifestyle of wild parties, exotic holidays and beautiful women, he settled down to write internationally acclaimed best-selling novels.

Andy Monk has a tendency to exaggerate and has an occasionally tenuous grip on reality.

Hemi Ranapia isn’t looking for love. Fun, yes. Love, not so much. But a summer fishing holiday to laid-back Russell could turn out to be more adventure than this good-time boy ever bargained for.

Reka Harata hasn’t forgotten the disastrously sexy rugby star she met a year ago, no matter how much she wishes she could. Too bad Hemi keeps refusing to be left in her past.

Sometimes, especially in New Zealand’s Maori Northland, it really does take a village. And sometimes it just takes a little faith.

NOTE: This 36,000-word (120-page) novella begins about six years before the events of Just This Once, and yes, it gets a little steamy at times, because Reka and Hemi are just that way. It can be read as a stand-alone book, even if this is your first escape to New Zealand.

She’d noticed him even while she’d been walking down the aisle in the wharenui, wearing the stupid strapless dress of blood-red satin that Victoria had chosen, a dress she was definitely not going to be wearing again, a dress that had “bridesmaid” written all over it. She’d been supposed to be paying attention to her pace, and instead she’d been looking at the man sitting at the end of the row, up there to her right. A man who was looking right back at her. A mate of the groom’s, she knew, because Victoria had told them all he was coming. Hemi Ranapia, the starting No. 10 for the Auckland Blues, one of the year’s new caps for the All Blacks, and about the finest specimen of Maori manhood she’d ever seen. His dark, wavy hair cut short and neat, his brown eyes alive with interest as he watched her. A physique to die for, too, his shoulders broad in the black suit, his waistline trim, the size of his arms and thighs making it clear that the suit hadn’t come off any rack, because that had taken some extra material. She’d stood in her neat row to one side of the bride throughout the service, had done her best to keep her attention on the event, and had felt his gaze on her as surely as if he’d been touching her. She’d had to will herself not to shiver, and the look he sent her way, unsmiling and intent, when she walked back up the aisle again told her she hadn’t been imagining his interest. She’d still had what felt like hours of photo-taking to come. Standing around endlessly, smiling in the sunshine, arranging and rearranging herself according to the photographer’s instructions, being flirted with by one of the groomsmen, with Hemi in and out of her view all the while. His suit coat off now, his tie loosened, white shirt stretching across chest and shoulders. A beer in his hand and a smile on his face, having a chat with the other boys, being approached, at first shyly and then with enthusiasm, by the kids. And by the girls, she saw with a twinge of jealousy that made no sense at all, as one after another of them smiled for him, touched her hair, touched his arm. It looked to her like every unattached woman at the wedding, and more than one of the partnered ones as well, was going out of her way to chat him up. And he wasn’t exactly resisting. But he was looking at her all the same. Every now and then, she glanced across and his gaze caught hers, and she saw an expression on his face, an intensity and a heat that were making her burn. By the time the photography was done and she was released at last, the wedding party moving into the wharekai so the eating and drinking and dancing could begin, she was well and truly warmed up, and tingling more than a little in every single place she could imagine him touching with those clever hands, the hands she somehow knew would handle a woman as deftly as they handled a rugby ball. The band began to play, the bride and groom stepped into their first dance, and she saw him edging his way around an animated group towards her, a glass in each hand. He reached her side, handed her the flute of champagne with the flash of a smile. “Think you earned this,” he told her. She took it, and he touched his glass to hers. “Cheers,” he said with another white smile, the heat in his gaze unmistakable at this range. He tippedhis brown throat back and drank, and she mirrored his action, felt golden bubbles popping against her tongue, the cool liquid sliding down her own throat. Drinking together like that somehow felt as intimate as kissing him, and the tongues of flame were licking every secret spot now. “Took your time, didn’t you?” she asked him with a cool she wasn’t even close to feeling. He laughed. “Didn’t want to seem too eager. Doing my best to be smooth here, but it’s hard going.” Another long drink, another long look as Victoria and Mason finished their dance and the band began another number, a fast one, and couples started filling the floor. “Think I can get a dance?” he asked. “Mmm, I think you could,” she said. “Maybe so.”

Rosalind James, the bestselling author of the Escape to New Zealand and Kincaids series, is a former marketing executive who discovered her muse after several years of living and working in paradise–also known as Australia and New Zealand. Now, she spends her days writing about delicious rugby players, reality shows, corporate intrigue, and all sorts of other wonderful things, and having more fun doing it than should be legal.

Their Rigid Rules, the 3rd book and prequel in The Chemical Attraction Series, can be read first or last in the series.

Taylor Valentine, a senior at Western Michigan University, has had her life planned out since kindergarten. After her parents died while she was still in high school, she had perfected it to make them proud. Now with the help of her best friends, Joe and Eva, she focuses on graduation and a career with romance in the far distant future. However, when the visiting professor enters the lecture hall to a four-weekend Civil War seminar, her perfect plan hits a snag.

As a handsome history professor and former marine, Dr. Stuart Morgan has his own set of strict rules especially with infatuated students. He enjoys his boring yet pleasant life until he starts receiving death threats. With his unwanted bodyguard in tow, Stuart is unnerved by his reaction to Taylor. Their rigid rules discourage all but a flirtation.

As the death threats become evident, the FBI believes Taylor’s the culprit, hindering their budding romance. When Taylor inadvertently becomes the target, Joe and Stuart whisk her away to protect her. Meanwhile, Joe struggles with his feelings for Taylor. He’s loved her since grade school. He won’t let her go and stands in Stuart’s way. The men push her to choose between the lifelong love of her best friend and the true love of her new boyfriend.

With the threats from family and foe pulling them apart, Stuart wonders if they can sustain the stress. Trusting their love, he must somehow convince Taylor to break her rules and embrace a new plan.

“You win.”

In shock, Stuart stared through the crack. No! It was not supposed to go like this. Joe turned to her. He questioned her statement, too.

She continued. “I thought Stuart was my one. Maybe I’m wrong.”

No! You’re not wrong! I am the one! Every cell in his body wanted to rush into the room. He gripped the doorframe to stop himself. He didn’t want to hear anymore, but he couldn’t move. Joe gaped as well.

“Are you supposed to be my one, Joey? We’ve been through so much together. I’ve always thought of you as my best friend and brother. Our love is deep and strong. It’s good and pure. Nobody could ever break that. That’s why I’m wondering if you really are my one. You’ve heard Mom’s stories about the chemistry of love and what it’s supposed to be like. Is that us?”

Stuart couldn’t breathe. He and Taylor had chemistry. She didn’t feel it, too?

“Maybe that is us. I’ve loved you my whole life,” Joe replied.

Stuart felt a knife slowly breach his ribs and pierce his heart as Taylor leaned over and kissed Joe. It wasn’t a peck either. The pain froze him as if ice encased his body. Still, he couldn’t turn away…

After retiring from acupuncture and massage therapy, Christina found a new passion. She enjoys writing about the emotional workings of our mind and heart and the spiritual energy that taps into our passions. Her background in Traditional Chinese Medicine taught her that the mind and spirit affect the body in powerful ways. The healing power of LOVE is incredibly profound.

Alexandra Kamin is everywoman. At 42, she has a loving family, terrific children, a great career with a superlative income, a gorgeous face with a terrific figure, and a loving boyfriend. Most impressive is that she is in complete control of every ambit of her life.

Where do you go when you are at the top?

ORIGIN takes you back to the beginning… the beginning of Alexandra’s life in America, the beginning of the truest of love affairs, and the beginning of an entrepreneurial life. Through a series of flashbacks and conversations, Alexandra explains every nuance that made this beautiful family a dynasty that you want to root for.

Schooling, work, child rearing, and family affairs are all under Alexandra’s Order are all accounted for as the years go by. GNO, love affairs and the truest of loyalties are best second time around.

“NIIIIICCCCEEEE!” Alexandra bellowed stepping into the “apartment.” This was really something.

“You’re impressed?” The svelte blonde laughed, allowing Alexandra to walk through and take it all in.

“Had I known it would be like this, I would have admitted myself into a psychiatric facility a long time ago!” Alex was making conversation. Her mind was too busy assessing the place.

She was standing in a two-story duplex. It was a “New” building, on the West side of New York City overlooking the Hudson River. The building was entirely made of glass. Inside the apartment, everything was appointed in tones and textures of white.

“It’s not too late you know.” The blonde answered, using exactly the same tone. “I have friends who run sanatoria and “well-centers” in Connecticut … and in California, by the surf. There’s one in Los Cabos too. They are all luxurious. Plenty of fancy things and gardens and pool-sides. I could make arrangements.”

“I’m soooo in!” Alexandra admitted. “Where do I sign up, Doc!? Do I lie on this couch?” She asked, pointing toward a white, tufted, leather couch. Alex was trying to analyze how someone was brilliant enough to design it. It was definitely modern, but it still had enough “old world” comfort that you could just lounge on it to read or watch TV. And this leather… it was just… soft, and supple and inviting. “Wait did we get a diagnosis on me already?”

“Well sure, didn’t your friends already decide that you are depressed and need to be cured? Why else would you be seeing a psychiatrist?” The blonde asked, laughing. She came into the sitting area, and sat down in one of the white lounge chairs.

“Right.” Alex agreed. She sat in the chair opposite her, although they were both facing the outside. The Hudson River was playing with the sunlight and the water was bouncing the rays in such a way that it looked like it was generating the sparkles. “So, uhm… how do we do this?”

“Cure you?” The blonde was laughing, and Alex smirked at her, rolling her eyes.

“Relax. This is for you Alexandra. There is no pattern. Want some water or iced tea or something?”

“Water would be great.” Alexandra said, though her mind was more into photographing this room.

The details were extraordinary. The room was “albino”. That seemed to be its strength. Someone specifically made it — not devoid of color, really — but purposefully white. It was rich in its whiteness. The walls, and there were many, although, technically, the whole place was “open”, were of different materials. Some walls were Venetian or marbleized stucco. Some were pure Carrera marble, with just the veining showing through. Some were sueded, and some had mother-of-pearl wall coverings. But everything was white. Not cream… but white. And nothing was in contrast with anything. The hard and soft surfaces all melded.

The ceiling-to-floor windows had no treatments. Large, ornate “boxes” that served as moldings (with mother-of-pearl textures) obviously held shades that could be let down by means of a remote control. There was one, enormous, Chihuly chandelier. It was white, too.

“No, actually. I’m trying a new experiment with you.” The good doctor said.

EmiliaI. Rutigliano is an attorney who writes about people that she finds interesting. Although her books are fiction, she weaves in a lot of the events of her own life, practice and travels. She lives in New York City with her husband and three precocious teenagers (who occasionally acknowledge her existence when the internet is malfunctioning).

ALEXANDRA’S ORDER is Emilia’s second book series, and is geared toward readers who enjoy a full story about multi-dimensional characters. Because ORDER takes place in many locations with many different cultures, Emilia doesn’t write it unless she visits each location and meets the people who speak, think and act the same way as the characters in the book. It’s a tough life, but she perseveres…

The last of an ancient group of wizards leaves a gift to the newly arrived race of men. It is revered and cared for by a line of priests until it is stolen, and the high priest and his sovereign murdered by a king who believes himself destined to be a great wizard. But from ancient writings the high priest had discovered that the gift is not benevolent as was thought. This forces the son of the high priest, unexpectedly elevated to his father’s position, and the young prince who is equally suddenly king, into a race to find the gift before it can be used as that may cause the destruction of the world. Accompanied by the retired captain of the palace guard they hope to speed their journey by crossing the Wasteland, a seeming desert, which is fabled to be populated by monsters, and from which no visitor has ever returned. In the course of their adventures they are hunted by dog faced men and captured by slavers, but the young prince truly becomes a king, and the priest discovers that he has a destiny that goes beyond the bounds of his world.

Hiding behind the trees they waited for the approach of the dogfaced men. The defile was cut deeply into the hillside and was flanked by rocky crags that rose almost vertically to the top of the hill. Their pursuers would have no alternative but to follow them up the defile as the climb on either side of it would be almost impossible in the fury of the thunderstorm.

Carantor, crouching behind a tree was the nearest to the gap through which the dogfaced men would have to come in single file. His plan was to allow a small number of them through before he broke from cover to face the remainder as they tried to climb through the gap. Caran Tuith and Bataan stood a few yards back their swords drawn and ready to deal with those first few in the tight confines of the gully. In the flashes of lightning they could see down the rocky stairway with its steep sides, all the way to the bottom, and they were sure that in their present position they could not be caught unawares. Water ran over the slippery fragments of rock and between their feet before cascading over the tangle of exposed tree roots, much of it falling onto Carantor’s back. Oblivious to the cold water he waited, anxious and alert, for the arrival of the creatures that had pursued them for three days. He knew that there was no possibility of hearing their approach amid the noise of the storm, and although the lightning when it came illuminated the defile and its approach, the heavy rain and the pitch darkness between the flashes could hide their arrival until the very last moment.

All three strained their eyes and ears. Their fingers clenched and unclenched around the hilts of their swords. The rain had soaked them to the skin and though Caran Tuith and Bataan had been oblivious to how wet and cold they were during their flight, now, standing still and quiet, they began to shiver and feel the numbness growing in their toes.

Bataan thought that he saw something move to the right of the defile, a large figure silhouetted for a moment against the blinding white of the lightning. He turned to tell Caran Tuith that he thought the dogfaced men had succeeded in climbing the cliffs and were coming over the top of the hill when, in another flash of lightning, he saw in the young King’s face a sudden alertness as he moved away from Bataan as if readying himself for combat. Bataan did not need to ask what the lightning had revealed to his friend. He too readied himself, and turned his eyes back to the defile trying to discern any shape or movement in the darkness, the figure on the crest above forgotten.

For a moment the storm seemed to lessen a little, like a squall at sea that suddenly abates to give a moments quiet respite before returning with renewed force. In that lull they heard the sound of movement amongst the rocks as feet dislodged loose stones and sent them clattering downhill. As the wind and rain returned Bataan thought that he heard the sound of shouting voices. Then the whole sky flashed white with a tremendous sheet of lightning that lit the ground before them in stark black and white. In its glare the three stared in disbelief at the scene in the defile. The dogfaced men where there, but they were not climbing up to fight. They were struggling in the mesh of nets whose ends were held by large figures straining to keep their footing on the crest above. Once more all was plunged into darkness, and an immediate and deafening crash of thunder showed that the storm was directly overhead.

Although their faces were hidden in the dark, both Bataan and Caran Tuith’s wore the same bewildered expression. The strange tableau, cast into such stark relief by the lightning, was unexpected and confusing. Almost before they had time to have a second thought Carantor was with them.

“Run” he yelled over the noise of the storm.

Michael was born in Middlesbrough in the North Riding of Yorkshire, UK in 1951 where he was soon creating havoc as a short trousered rebel. Fortunately as his mother was head cook at police headquarters his numerous run ins with the constabulary were dealt with in the privacy of the family home. A junior school run by nuns, and then an excellent grammar school under the watchful eye of Marist priests educated him to have a love of literature, music and science. Though they did nothing to curb his anti-authority streak.

An initial ramble through all manner of jobs finally came to a halt in the oil and chemical industry where his love of science and all things technical provided him with gainful employment for almost thirty years. Whilst working he spent several years in the Middle East with visits to India, and around Europe before landing in the USA where he has lived for the past twenty years.

Retired now he writes, take photographs and restores vintage British motorcycles in upstate New York.

Knox Hamilton wants his father’s recently vacated Senate seat, but the only way his conservative constituents are going to vote for Knox is if he loses his playboy reputation. Which means Knox needs a wife. There’s only one woman with whom he’s willing to share his life, but after the way he broke things off with her, will she give him another chance?

Chloe Lochlan’s job is on the line. If she doesn’t grab a big headline, she’ll be ousted from her gig at the major newspaper where she works as a reporter. Knox’s offer of marriage chills her to the bone. He already crushed her heart once and she has no intention of letting it happen again. But being with him gives her the kind of access to top tier social events rarely granted to media, access that could land her the story of a lifetime. When the truth she uncovers threatens to destroy the man she still loves, will she bury the story…or his career?

Excerpt

His touch left a trail of gooseflesh over her thighs, her shivers contrasting wildly with the heat nestled against the front of his slacks. A string of profanity grazed his lips where they crept against her skin. More.

He dragged her closer, but the dress bunched around her waist and created a surprisingly formidable barrier for something so damned soft. He tugged and shoved the fabric to no avail, then finally gave up and slipped a finger beneath her panties.

Though he didn’t enter her, the barometric pressure lowered with the force of her gasp. She caught her breath enough to utter a very unladylike oath, and he had every intention of following through on that particular demand.

He withdrew to his knees, gaining an edge of control with the distance. With a laziness that belied the charge of his heart through his chest, he explored her outermost contours with soft, intimate strokes. Little sounds of contentment spilled from her lips, a breathy staccato of demands for more. Clearly, he wasn’t the only victim of this crippling desire.

She was wet and unbelievably hot, and he was an ass. When this was over and the sun pasted a morning-after glare on what they’d done, she’d want to fall in love and charge head over heels for a happily-ever-after that wasn’t on the agenda. Not his anyway. But sex…dammit.

He bit back a groan that had nothing to do with the erection that had probably by now reshaped his zipper. He didn’t have any condoms.

“What’s wrong?” Her breathless words were punctuated by the trace of her nails down his abdomen. Her dress, at this point, was little more than a belt. She hadn’t worn a bra, but she hadn’t needed one. Her breasts—perfect handfuls, each of them—were fully bared and begging for his attention. Her soft, sleek hips gripped him, framing the silken vee of her drenched underwear. He stroked her there, watching desire churn in the oceanic depths of her eyes.

“No condoms,” he muttered, fully sheathed in some sort of Chloe trance. Whatever element she possessed belonged on the krypton block of the periodic table. She vexed him, and he’d have been smart to remember that before he’d gotten close enough for all of his blood to rush south and point her way—simple instructions for a senseless man.

No condoms.

For some reasons, his words incited a riot of blush over her face. She raised a white-tipped nail to her lips. “I…uh…in my bag. You…help yourself.”

Well, hell. Good for her, but she hadn’t planned on spending her evening in his arms. Which meant Chloe was prepared for, well, someone other than him. A man she didn’t know, per her own admission. The news stung but didn’t change the fact she lay there wet and trembling and offering Knox the latex key to her kingdom.

He’d cope.

About the Author

Sarah and her husband of what he calls “many long, long years” live on the mid-Atlantic coast with their six young children, all of whom are perfectly adorable when they’re asleep. She never dreamed of becoming an author, but as a homeschooling mom she often jokes she writes fiction because if she wants anyone to listen to her, she has to make them up. (As it turns out, her characters aren’t much better than the kids.) When not buried under piles of laundry, she may be found adrift in the Atlantic (preferably on a boat) or in search of that ever-elusive perfect writing spot where not even the kids can find her. To learn more about her work in contemporary, historical, and supernatural romance and romantic suspense, please stalk accordingly.

For breaking the sacred vows of knighthood, Gareth de Mowbrey is banished to the outer realms of the kingdom. He is broken down and is plagued by the demons from his past. He has lost everything, his reputation is in shreds, and he is walking the path of self-destruction. That is, until he meets one woman who may have the power to save him from himself

Clarisse de Servian knows that her duty is to marry the man that her family chooses for her. But even for the betterment of her people, she cannot bring herself to wed a man she does not love. She does however fall in love with a man who is forbidden to her, and for once she enjoys happiness. But this happiness is only fleeting, for Clarisse possess a dark secret that threatens to destroy her and everyone she loves.

Note: Although part 3 of the Knights of Honor Trilogy, this story can be read as a stand-alone book.

Prologue

King Edward’s Court, England 1354 AD

The sounds and chatter abruptly ended as soon as Gareth de Mowbrey set foot into the royal court. His hands and feet were tied to iron shackles, the long chains scraping across the cold stone floor, rattling in his wake. As a knight, he had witnessed many prisoners entering the court like this. But now he was the one who would stand before the king, with heavy iron chains weighing him down.

In the dungeon the night had merged into day; he had no idea how long he had been imprisoned. And when the guard came to get him, he knew his time had come. First, he would face a trial by ordeal, and then his fate would be sealed by that outcome, which was undoubtedly death.

The two knights Derrik d’Evant and Jonathan d’Abelard were already there, waiting for the trial to begin.

A half dozen men also stood at a distance from the king’s throne. They all turned, silently watching his approach, speculation and judgment already present on their faces.

Jonathan stood with his back as straight as a rod, his gaze zeroing in on Gareth. The knight had dark shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. His hair was mused and the beginnings of a beard shadowed his chin. An image of a fierce hawk was embroidered boldly on his surcoat and covered the shining armor that he wore. He looked every bit the legendary knight that he was, forceful and forbidding. His presence was commanding, and the surrounding men kept a respectful distance from him.

He was close enough to see Jonathan’s face. But then he wished that he didn’t witness his friend’s lips tighten with distaste, or how he averted his eyes, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of him. The rejection shot through to his heart, as if an arrow had pierced it. But this is what I deserve.

He hung his head, not wanting to see the disgust in Jonathan’s countenance. He focused on placing one foot over the other. The guard gave him an impatient shove. And when he still didn’t move fast enough, the guard pushed him a little harder. Gareth stumbled to his knees, the chains around his legs and hands clinking as they made hard contact with the stone floor.

Gareth slowly got up, and through the slits of his eyes, he examined the men who were present to witness his judgment. Most of the faces were familiar to him.

The warden who officiated the trials, stood back with the others, his hands noticeably empty. Almost with dread, Gareth looked over toward King Edward. The monarch sat on his throne with one elbow propped up on the armrest and his chin resting on an open palm.

“Tell us what has happened,” the king commanded, the expression on his face grim. His advisor stood at his side, the man’s expression as serious as his ruler.

“Your majesty, Sir Gareth killed the Grey Knight,” Jonathan said, his voice dripping with disappointment and barely concealed disgust. “He killed my bastard brother after giving word that he would bring him safely to the royal court. He did this, your majesty, and robbed us all of our right to witness high justice.”

Gareth stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the cutting accusation. Of course this was useless. The sting of Jonathan’s censure had the ability to puncture through armor. He wouldn’t have cared if the blame came from another man, but this charge from the Iron Hawk. He was a man who Gareth had traveled with, shared bread with, and who he trusted with his life. In all manner except for blood, Jonathan was his brother.

“This is a serious charge,” King Edward said, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. “What proof do you have that he did this?” He flicked his eyes over to the young knight. “Sir Derrik, what did you witness? Did you see the murder of Raulf of Blackburn?”

Derrik stepped forward. “When I arrived, the Grey Knight was already dead, your majesty. I had thought perhaps that the death was an accident.”

“’Twas no accident,” Jonathan interjected. “I heard the confession from his own lips.”

“Do you deny this, Sir Gareth?” the king asked, his eyes steady and cool.

“Nay,” he said, licking his cracked lips, his voice low and raspy. “I ended the Grey Knight’s life. But ‘twas what he deserved after all that he did to my brother Reuben, to Lady Amelia,” he glanced over at Jonathan, “and to countless other people.”

“Aye, the Grey Knight’s life was ended,” Jonathan said bitterly, “but it should not have been by your hands.”

Gareth sensed all eyes turning toward him. A murmur sounded among the crowd. And the wordsdisgrace and dishonor buzzed around his ears, making them burn.

“You killed Raulf,” Jonathan continued, his voice quiet although there was fury in it. He then raised a finger, pointing it to the centre of Gareth’s chest, his hand trembling slightly from the force of his reproach. “You did this when I explicitly told you not to harm him. And you denied me the one thing that was most important to me. Now I will never see the Grey Knight hanged for what he did to my betrothed.” His voice cracked and his eyes brightened for a moment, as if he was overcome with emotion. “And you lied about killing him.” He paused, heaving in a heavy breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. “How could you do this to me, Gareth? After I took you in and treated you as kin. You knew that I had waited ten years to see the Grey Knight punished.” He blinked rapidly a few times before he buried his head in his hand. But when his hand dropped away from his face and he looked up again, there was loathing in his eyes. And as he spoke again, his voice was as hard as steel. “You took an oath to be truthful at all times, to be honorable at all costs. But you have failed in your duty. You have failed me.”

Gareth closed his eyes, unable to look at his friend. He couldn’t deny that he took the vows. Nor could he deny that he broke them.

“You sire,” Jonathan continued, his voice ringing throughout the court, “are not fit to be a knight.”

A hush descended upon them, and the only sounds were the crackling of the fire at the far end of the room.

I robbed him of his vengeance. For a fleeting, almost desperate moment, Gareth felt sick to his stomach. Never had he witnessed so much hatred coming from his friend. And all that hatred was directed at him.

“We have heard enough,” King Edward said, breaking the silence. He lowered his hand from underneath his bearded chin and settled his dark eyes onto Gareth. “You have put us in a difficult position, Sir Gareth. A crime of this magnitude must be punished. When you take your oaths to become a knight, you cannot treat these vows lightly. And for you to withhold the truth — this act seriously undermines your integrity as a man and as a warrior.” He paused for half a beat, allowing his words to sink in. “However, we cannot forget that you are a good and loyal knight, a knight sympathetic to our cause. Nor can we forget the faithful service that you and your brother had given to the state.”

A low hum went through the crowd, and a few people nodded their heads in agreement. The king held up his hand for silence and almost immediately the noise dwindled.

“Make no mistake, the man known as the Grey Knight was a menace to the state,” the king continued, his voice echoing with authority. “He terrorized the people of this kingdom for ten long years. ‘Twas only a matter of time before he was caught and killed.” He nodded to the guard. “Release his chains.”

“But your majesty —” Jonathan began.

“We are not finished,” the king interrupted, he pinned a glacial stare at the knight.

Jonathan snapped his mouth shut.

The guard unlocked the chains and tugged at the links, causing the metal prison to slither to the floor.

His burden was gone and he felt light. He rubbed at the raw area where the iron chains had chaffed at his skin, but that was a small price to pay. At least now he knew that the king didn’t intend to kill him. However his relief was short-lived.

The king shifted his eyes back to Gareth. “For your crime of breaking the sacred vows of knighthood,” he continued, “You will be banished to the outer reaches of the realm.”

A gasp sounded from the group that surrounded them, and they turned to one another, whispering their astonishment.

Jonathan slapped his gauntlet on his armored leg, the metal clanking against metal. He seemed almost unable to contain his objection, but he didn’t dare speak up again.

Was he supposed to be relieved or dismayed? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that torture, whipping and death were the usual punishments for a crime of this scale. But the king’s decree made him feel numb. He would be banished outside the kingdom. And even though he wasn’t stripped of his title, he could no longer be a knight as his reputation was now in shreds.

The guard bent down to gather up the chains on the ground just as the king’s advisor spoke quietly into the king’s ear. He handed a parchment over to King Edward.

“You are dismissed,” King Edward said, waving his hand in the air. Taking the parchment, he broke the seal and began to read it.

Gareth could feel the hostility emanating from Jonathan. The king’s punishment was too light it seemed. He glanced over at his friend, and when their eyes met, Gareth felt the other man’s loathing shoot straight to his gut.

“I’m sorry —”

“Don’t speak to me,” Jonathan said, his teeth clenched. “Your words are meaningless. I will forever regret that I had put my trust in you.” With that, he pivoted on one foot and stalked off.

As Gareth watched his friend leave, an abject sensation flooded his body and gathered in his heart.

His shoulders slumped slightly, and he started to move forward. Just then a hand touched his arm, stopping him. He turned to find Derrik at his side.

“I tried my best to convince them that ‘twas an accident, Gareth,” he said.

He shook off the other man’s hand. “You have my gratitude. But as I’ve told the Hawk, I meant to kill the Grey Knight, and that’s what I did.”

Dana is the only girl from a family of nine children. As a teenager, there was a constant battle for the T.V. remote, which she lost so she was forced to find her amusement in books. Soon after she discovered historical romance novels from best selling romance writers like Johanna Lindsay, Judith McNaught and Julie Garwood. She read as many as 10 romance books per week, and spent hours with her nose pressed between the pages, skipping meals and cutting out sleep. Medieval romance and love in the Regency era was just too exciting.

It wasn’t until she was married with two young kids that she decided to take a stab at writing her own historical romance books. She is intrigued with the idea of writing romance fiction that could bring hours of enjoyment to readers, help them escape from reality, and perhaps remind them how sweet love is and should be. These are the things that she enjoys as a reader, and these are the things that she wants to give back as a writer.

Dana resides in a city east of Toronto, Canada. When not writing or reading, she’s dining at local restaurants with her husband and kids and enjoying the spectacular foods of the world.

Freelance journalist, Genevieve Parker, has just been handed the biggest story of her career. But there’s one problem…Going undercover as a submissive in one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in the world was more than she bargained for. But that’s nothing compared to the man she meets there. Andreas Contos. Her assignment. Gorgeous. Powerful. Mysterious. Genevieve is fascinated…intrigued. But does her intense attraction and willingness to go places with him she’s never gone before sexually really have to do with writing her exposé? Feeling confused and overwhelmed, every instinct tells her to run before her professional facade comes crashing down…before she has to choose between obligation and desire….

One elusive billionaire…

Greek billionaire, Andreas Contos, is more than he seems. Between the powerful company he keeps and the secrets that lurk behind closed doors, trusting anyone is out of the question – especially the lush and sensual woman he just met. But there is something different about Genevieve – a guarded nature he’s anxious to penetrate. Unable to resist her, Andreas proceeds in taking her under his wing for the night to show her his world – a world of exquisite pleasure. As the two of them get deeper in exploring the eroticism of mind and body, danger watches them from the shadows….

Excerpt

Eventually, she’d resigned herself to the fact that men didn’t really want or desire her. They preferred women with trimmer bodies, who were uninhibited, and more sexually inclined. That realization had hurt like a bitch. She may not have been a modern day Aphrodite but at least she was a good person. Smart, sensible, practical, hardworking, unselfish. Relatively average, if not attractive. She gave all she could to her mom, her job. It was enough, right?

But evidently such qualities did not give men erections. As a result, her sex life was non-existent. She’d learned to channel those energies into her work instead. And besides, the idea of sexual exploration and experimentation sounded exhausting and time consuming. Who the hell had the time in a 24/7 world anyway?

Yeah, her sexual experiences were limited for this assignment. But her experience in her job was not and therefore she would not allow her biases to dictate the outcome. After all, she was a professional.

About the Author

Bella Ross wrote her first book (a novel) at eighteen a la Jackie Collins. But back then, unbeknownst to her, life was about to take her on a detour. As she set off on her new course, her dream of writing took a backseat and her entrepreneurial spirit flourished instead. But after many years of worldly pursuits, the urge to write returned.

With her love of travel, it is no surprise that her ‘Wanderlust Series’ & ‘Club Pluto Series’ take place in glamorous capitals or exotic locales around the world. Its the perfect backdrop/setting for her characters to explore and indulge their lusts and passions, loves and desires.

When she’s not writing, she’s reading, or gallivanting all over seeking new inspiration, or people watching while enjoying a latte at Starbucks and jotting down ideas.

She loves to hear from readers and looks forward to interacting through her social media channels. You can also sign up for her mailing list to be notified about new releases, giveaways and more.

Gigi Dumont never forgot how she walked away from the only man she ever loved.

She’s a teacher who has led her students to the finals of an international French competition to be help in Paris. The night before the trip, the Principal tries to cancel the trip before he, in turn, loses his job to her high school boyfriend, Sean Collins.

Sean Collins has survived cancer, a divorce , and Gigi having aborted their child back in high school. He assumed he’d hate her, if they ever crossed paths again. But he discovers she’s exactly what he wants.

When Gigi and Sean are stuck together for a week in Paris, Gigi feels she has lost all her control. How can she survive her attraction to Sean? The man’s sexier now than he was back in the day, and once upon a time, he’d had her heart. She finds herself falling for him, even knowing forever is impossible.

Payback time. Standing in his mother’s kitchen, Sean Collins smiled as he hung up the phone.

He hovered at the phone for a moment, then charged along the carpeted hallway to his bedroom. In a flash, he changed from his T-shirt and jeans into his black pin stripe king-of-the-business-world suit complete with black tie and shiny black shoes.

Finished dressing, Sean jittered at the door and listened to his son talking nonstop to his mother upstairs. His skin tingled and he closed his eyes. At least moving to his parents’ country estate where he had grown up on Cape Cod had been good for everyone.

Breakfast could wait. He grabbed the keys on the counter downstairs, and he called upstairs, “I’m leaving. I won’t be gone long.”

Last year, the school principal had fired him with bogus charges. Sean had sworn on every holy book that he’d been fired because his doctors had discovered cancer in a routine physical exam.

The sickness sucked. But he’d survived. And now he used his vast wealth to get what he wanted. No teacher should be treated so callously. He had taken the job at the time to prove to himself he had more choices than being the chief financial officer of his father’s corporation.

He set his jaw and walked outside to his car, where the smell of freshly cut grass hit his senses.

The moment he stepped outside and headed toward the garage, Sean stared at the vast forested area on the property for a moment and pressed his lips together. Trees made sense. Women never had. His luck with women had been bad from the start. His first girlfriend, Gigi Dumont, had left him for parts unknown, and then later his wife, now his ex, Jennifer, had also left. She’d played with a whole set of loose scruples. But Jennifer hadn’t hurt him, not like Gigi had. Sean rolled his shoulders. Why did everything in his life always seem to go back to Gigi leaving?

He fished out his keys from his pocket. And now Gigi had moved back into the house next door.

Sean opened the garage door. A quick click of a button and the gate lifted.

Last night he hadn’t slept. Today his shoulders were straight. This moment had nothing to do with women and everything to do with justice. His fingers traced the shiny finish of his brother Gerard’s Aston Martin. Without blinking, he opted to borrow the car. He’d be early and outshine everyone else. Gerard had offered to loan it to him specifically for today. Sean licked his lips and turned the key, igniting the engine, and took off.

A daydream flashed in his eyes. Principal Murray’s jaw dropped to the ground in shock the second Sean stepped inside the office with the papers.

Sean clutched the wheel. He intended to twist the knife even further. People like Mr. Murray gave businessmen around the world the reputation of cold, heartless automatons, especially when he claimed the firing had been over “job performance.” Every one of Sean’s students had passed the state assessments.

Now, Sean ran the finances for his parents, his father’s company, and his brothers. The support of his family to get him through cancer treatments had been phenomenal, but what if he hadn’t had that support? What if he’d had no money to pay for treatments? He’d be dead because the principal had fired him due to the insurance increases. Well, now Sean had a better solution.

He sped down the country road for the half-hour trip. During his horrible marriage to Jennifer, he’d worked as a teacher, and his students had achieved both academic and social successes. Jennifer had been the nightmare that drove Sean away from Collins Industries, Collins Enterprises, Collins Investments, and Collins Mutual, to list a few of his father’s multiple companies. Post divorce and cancer, Sean had made the decision to offer employees packages in cases of sickness. Anyone who worked for him would now receive a payoff equal to the job performance done over the years as part of a settlement. Money paid hospital bills.

Sean’s stomach clenched as he gazed at the sign for the Barnstable Charter High School parking lot. Sean parked Gerard’s fancy lawyer wheels that screamed “out to impress” right next to the about-to-be-sacked principal’s BMW sedan. The Aston Martin made the perfect goodbye gesture. Murray had been outclassed.

Sean leaned forward in his seat, refusing to feel guilty. He waited for the school bell to ring and watched students bounding outside.

Unlike most people, his family had money, and normally he wouldn’t like flaunting wealth. His Jeep Wrangler suited him just fine, but today he needed to look like the elite businessman he was. He stepped out a minute later, and in a fast walk, he strode down the halls. Sean winked the second he saw the school guard’s shocked face.

“You had cancer?” asked the older African American lady who coached the wrestling team.

“Yes, I did. I’m better now,” Sean said, smiling.

He inclined his head and passed the security desk then Sean turned right toward the principal’s office.

In his briefcase he carried the school board’s ruling and the proof of sale of the school to Collins Enterprises. Barnstable was a private school that followed school board law. The sale to his company had been finalized, but Sean had insisted on telling Murray in person. The minutes of the meeting would be posted at one that day. Victory waited for him, and justice tasted better than homemade chocolate chip cookies.

In the office, the overqualified secretary, Mattie, dropped her pencil on the floor. Sean made eye contact with her and the older woman smiled back. Then he picked up the pencil in stride, and handed it back to her. She opened her mouth to speak, and he shook his head, placing his finger over his lips to silently request her silence.

She smiled her response and swiveled her chair back to her computer.

He had seen Mattie in action and understood the older woman had known how to treat people more than anyone else in the office.

Outside the principal’s door, Sean straightened his tie into perfect alignment. His heart rate sped up and his entire body became alert then he heard her voice.

Gigi, or should he say, Giovanna Dumont. Her quiet, sweet voice unmanned him, making his palms sweat. Why would she be here? And how could she still steal his breath away?

Victoria Pinder grew up in Irish Catholic Boston before moving to the Miami sun. She’s worked in engineering, after passing many tests proving how easy Math came to her. Then hating her life at the age of twenty four, she decided to go to law school. Four years later, after passing the bar and practicing very little, she realized that she hates the practice of law. She refused to one day turn 50 and realize she had nothing but her career and hours at a desk. After realizing she needed change, she became a high school teacher. Teaching is rewarding, but writing is a passion.

During all this time, she always wrote stories to entertain herself or calm down. Her parents are practical minded people demanding a job, and Victoria spent too many years living other people’s dreams, but when she sat down to see what skill she had that matched what she enjoyed doing, writing became so obvious. The middle school year book when someone wrote in it that one day she’d be a writer made sense when she turned thirty.

Besides her full time job of teaching, in 2013 and 2014, she sold on her own sold books to three different publishers. The Zoastra Affair, Chaperoning Paris, Borrowing the Doctor, and Electing Love will be published from Soul mate Publishing. Mything the Throne will be published with Double Dragon Ebooks. Favorite Coffee, Favorite Crush will be published with Jupiter Press.

Now she is represented by Dawn Dowdle of Blue Ridge Literary Agency and she hopes to continue selling her novels that she writes. Moving up to the next level from hard work and determination is rewarding, and partnerships bring new opportunities.

Also she’s the Vice President of Programs for the Florida Romance Writers. She’s gone to multiple conferences and intends to continue. She learns and meets so many people at conferences. Her website is www.victoriapinder.com, and she’ll continue to grow my web presence. She is working hard on other projects and found the time to plan her wedding this year.

Before writing, her father had taken her to many star trek conventions and on her own she grew up as the only girl in the 90s at the comic book store. Science Fiction was her first love, but contemporary romance was her second. She’s sticking with contemporaries for the near future.